


Every Day Is a Gift, After All

by misbegotten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 08:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: Greg marks Mycroft's birthday whenever the situation calls for it.





	Every Day Is a Gift, After All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [out_there](https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/gifts).



> For the divine out_there, on the occasion of her birthday. Which is not today. :D

Mycroft won't tell Greg when his birthday is, for reasons which have to do with vanity (perhaps) and mischievousness (definitely) because Greg is a copper and could certainly find out. Not that Greg trusts the official records on this subject; Mycroft would no doubt have altered them at his whim.

Mycroft has been sleeping fitfully of late, his subconscious signal that something is troubling him at work. Mycroft would surely be horrified to know that he doesn't have complete control over his physical cues in all situations, but Greg doesn't mention it and it's possible it never came up with any of Mycroft's other partners. But with Greg, Mycroft is able to relax. That's a gift that Mycroft has given to Greg, a kind of surrender of his iron control even if he doesn't realise it.

All of this is preface to saying that when Greg wakes Mycroft with a cup of tea and a muffin with a single candle on it, Mycroft is charmingly confused.

"Happy birthday," Greg says, and Mycroft dutifully blows out the candle (he wouldn't want wax to pool on the duvet, after all).

"Gregory," Mycroft drawls. "It's not my birthday."

Greg shrugs. "It's a floating holiday. I felt like celebrating something."

He's pleasantly sore from their exploits the night before, and honestly that alone is worth marking the occasion. Mycroft's level of control in sexual situations borders on the fantastic, and he had teased multiple orgasms out of Greg through careful application of his fingers, tongue, and cock. Greg had been shaky and exhausted afterwards, feeling more wrung out than he'd ever been this side of age forty. It was a night worth noting as significant.

Mycroft licks his lips (Greg watches the pink tongue, so enticing, and shifts where he stands as his cock starts to stir) but sets the muffin aside on the bedside table and turns his attention to the tea. "Thank you," he says, his voice still a little rough from the early morning hour and, Greg likes to think, from all the glorious sex. Mycroft smiles a bit fondly at Greg (his cock stirs more) after he takes a sip. Greg has learned exactly how Mycroft likes his tea; it's a measure of Greg's affection that he's done so because Greg himself is fine with a cup of coffee, black as night with no sweetener. Mycroft's preferred tea ritual involves a precise number of minutes of steeping, a small amount of milk carefully timed, and the barest hint of sugar only as an indulgence on an infrequent basis. 

Greg waits until Mycroft has set the teacup down before crawling back into bed. "I know you can't take the day off, but I thought maybe dinner this evening?"

Mycroft stretches, careful not to jostle the tea or the muffin at the side, and then folds Greg in his arms. His thumb traces a careful circle on the back of Greg's shoulder. "That might not be possible. I have a late meeting. Early, on the other participant's end."

Greg doesn't voice his disappointment, but Mycroft knows it from the minutest shift in his muscles.

"Lunch, though, I could manage," Mycroft allows.

Greg thinks about his caseload and decides, stuff it. He can take lunch today, if that's when Mycroft is available. "That sounds perfect."

"Shall we eat the muffin?" Mycroft asks, his tone lightly mocking because he knows there's not really a choice at hand. Greg is not leaving his arms, and there is no way that Mycroft will allow crumbs in the bedclothes.

"Later," Greg says. His cock is that of a randy teenager, apparently, and more than interested in the firm muscle of Mycroft's arms around him, the lean lines of Mycroft's torso and legs. "I owe you a shag. Since, you know, it's your birthday."

"By all means," Mycroft says indulgently. 

Someday, perhaps, Greg will celebrate Mycroft's birthday on the day which God gave him for it. For now, he's content to use "birthday" celebrations as little marks of affection at random times. Because it makes him happy. And he is nothing if not happy with Mycroft in his life.


End file.
